Page 36 of Petrichor

Luca is waiting for me at the elevator. The ascent to the penthouse is quiet. He’s the only person who doesn’t make silence awkward, but fucking irritating. The stoic fucker’s favorite game is no words at all—it’s pretty effective during torture.

When I enter my place, Carlo is talking to Fly in the kitchen as they take out the food from the paper bags. I see luggage on the floor, together with a rolled sleeping bag near the wall. Is that all Fly owns? He sees us and smiles—his light eyes glittering as they slide over my suit.

It’s disconcerting how I’m already used to his presence inside my place after only a few days. It must be because I don’t see him that often. He doesn’t seem to know anything about the Enzino family or about an upcoming wedding. He actually looks pretty disinterested in the whole mafia scene. A pretence perhaps. Fly doesn’t look like the deceitful type, but I’ve been tricked once already.

Luca has already grabbed a few beer bottles from the fridge and has taken a seat at the kitchen counter. He hands one to Carlo—he hesitates until I give him my consent with a tilt of my head—and another one to Fly, who doesn’t even glance my way before taking it.

“You could have told me, I’d have gone out shopping,” Fly tells me, looking at the groceries. That is one of the tasks I gave him, even though I usually use food deliveries.

“For the brisket, I need to choose the meat myself,” I reply, as I toss my blue suit jacket on the sofa and roll up the light gray shirtsleeves.

“Here.” Fly passes me an apron, and I catch Luca’s smirk before he hides it behind the beer bottle. It seems to say, “Wife.”

I yank the garment out of his hand and put it on. Carlo went to sit near Luca and is drinking his beer with an intent gaze on Fly. I don’t like it.

“Never thought of this before, but cooking is sexy.” Fly’s flirty words make me pause. Luca coughs mockingly. When I look at Fly he’s staring at the meat. “Brisket…sounds delicious,” Fly adds afterward, his voice is filled with anticipation as I make small cuts on the beef’s surface.

“It is if Marco lets us try it,” Luca grumbles.

“When did I ever refuse you my food?” I stab the wooden board with the kitchen knife.

“Touchy,” he mouths.

“I’d never peg you for the cooking type.” Fly is looking at me with wonder in his glacial blue eyes. Then a tiny furrow between his brows appears as he frowns. “The leftovers I eat for lunch…do you make them?”

I place the large cut of beef in a bowl. I grunt as I sprinkle salt and spices over the meat.

“Thank you.” Fly’s whisper is soft and weak.

“So thoughtful, Marco.” Luca doesn’t hide his teasing anymore.

What the fuck is the big deal? I cook and can’t eat it all. Hence leftovers. I never told Fly he could eat them though. He just does whatever the fuck he wants inside my penthouse. He also doesn’tlisten to my orders and instead backtalks to me. No one else dares do that.

“Ask before taking other people’s stuff,” I growl at Fly, not thinking about the reason why I let him eat my food every day without saying anything until now.

He looks down for a moment. Then his shiny eyes focus on mine. “Can I eat your leftovers?”

Cheeky, pretty Butterfly. I feel my lips curl at the corner so I go to the oven to turn it on. Then I ask him, “You sleeping in a motel?”

That cute tiny furrow again. “How do you know?—?”

I grab the knife again and point at his bags near the fireplace. He doesn’t seem to know I put a guy on him.

“I-I’m looking for a new place. You are spying on me, and now following me as well?” he suddenly asks.

“No, I am not.” Because Jo is, and he’s one of the best at shadowing people.

“Is someone else from your crew following me?” he smartly asks, with a skeptical head tilt, arms crossed over his lean chest.

I stare at him, trying to figure him out. He acts all naive, but then he comes up with such insightful comments. He’s again wearing the white shirt he stole from me over a pair of dark leggings, but it’s all buttoned up, so I can’t take any peek at what’s underneath.

I don’t like it. I really fucking don’t.

I consider tearing the offensive shirt open, but I recover my wits in time. Or do I? Simply having the thoughts points at the fact that I’m slowly losing my sanity.

“You know who I am and what I do by now. I’m still alive in myline of work because I’m thorough,” I tell him as I move the meat to a tray and pour olive oil over it.

“Tending to paranoid,” Luca adds.

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